


It's Good With You, Darling

by YouWillBeWantingTeaNowISuppose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Auror Hannah Abbott, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners Ron & Hannah, Auror Ron Weasley, Dominance, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, Frottage, Hannah Abbott Is a Good Bro, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex, M/M, Minor Violence, Oh How They Need Each Other Ron & Blaise, POV Alternating, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Submission, Vaginal Sex, feelings of worthlessness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouWillBeWantingTeaNowISuppose/pseuds/YouWillBeWantingTeaNowISuppose
Summary: How long had Ron been wanting...and waiting? Could it have been anything like the torment Blaise had been through?It's been 6 years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Ron's got his scars.Blaise never stopped hurting, either.They meet and crash into each other in the most beautiful of ways.DO NOT POST/RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE. Thank you
Relationships: Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini, minor draco malfoy/harry potter - Relationship, past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship
Kudos: 19





	1. Hogge's

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I loved writing this, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.  
> A NOTE: There are three genders recognized in this verse: male, female, and intersex. If male/male or intersex relations are not something you are comfortable with, this may not be the fic for you.  
> Characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing & Warner Bros.  
> Enjoy!

**Ron**

Ron gasped at the burst of cold air that rushed at him in the early evening, his robes billowing as he stepped out of one of the many gateway telephone booths scattered throughout wizarding London. He couldn’t remember if he had held his breath during the thirty-second ride from the lower levels; he probably had. It was standard fare for the Ministry of Magic, after all—stale air and musty hallways.

A glimpse of bushy hair across the cobbled street, a momentary flashback to the announcement from last week—had it only been a week?—and he stumbled, just managing to put a hand up to an old stone wall, gouging his fingers into the narrow space between two bricks. _It’s not her_ , his inner voice informed him quickly, _she wouldn’t be here_. Heart beating rapidly, Ron turned his head slightly, watching the witch hurriedly embrace a portly wizard standing in the doorway of a tea shop—“Danika, my dear, I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it!”—and continuing to watch as her pointy hat, jostled by her lively companion, fell off her head to reveal a delicate nose and a pale face.

Ron breathed.

_We’re separating._

A tense silence had filled the Burrow then, Mum looking at him disappointingly with her lips pressed tightly together, pale white lines gathered together at their corners; Dad closing his eyes and bowing his head; George looking directly at him, a look of such sorrow crossing his features- George, who had lost Fred, and who looked at him as if he was the one who... _fuck_.

_We’re separating. We wanted you to be the first to know._

_You’re an Auror now_ , his head told him, _you’re an Auror and you should attempt to act like one_. Taking another deep breath, Ron righted himself and continued walking forward. He was approaching the end of Diagon Alley. Three blocks further down, away from respectable wizarding London, and he’d find a pub. Hogge’s. It’d be obscure there, he knew. Dark.

He’d apprehended his first culprit there a month after completing Basic Training. He’ll always remember the nerves of that day, the tense feeling in his shoulders throughout the entire affair, even after casting the appropriate immobilizing and restraining spells, and with his partner at the ready to lend assistance. When Ron and Hannah got back to headquarters, Dawkins, their mentor, had clapped him hard on the back with a “That’s how you do it, Weasley!” Ron’s stomach had churned uncomfortably at the thought of having to do it all over again. He’d thought Hogge’s, hovel that it was, would close down after that, but as it turned out, arrests were all too common in that part of town. Even the worst sort needed a drink now and then.

_Yeah, go and lose yourself in the shadows there, Ron._

_That’s the right place for your lot._

**Blaise**

_Slam_!

Blaise started at the frothy (and questionably grimy) glass tankard that landed in front of him on the small, rickety table, beer foam sloshing over the sides to drip onto his trousers and shoes. He could almost see the look of disgust on Mother’s face. Pure, righteous disgust. And not just Mother. Pansy. Draco. Theo. None of them would be caught dead in a place like this, vermin-infested and frequented by the lowest of the low.

“That’s half gone, isn’t it?” He scowled at the dirty barkeep, who sneered back, his lips pulling apart to reveal yellowed, rotted teeth. _And what are you going to do about it?_ his expression asked.

 _Well, fuck you too_. Blaise stared back coldly for a moment before shifting his gaze to one of the few unoccupied dark corners of the room. The place was full of shadows. He had counted a total of three functional lights when he first entered.

_So what’s this Blaise, visit number two, eh? Shouldn’t be too long till it’s three, and then four, before you start fitting right in..._

A heavy shuffling, the barkeep moving away, and Blaise thought he could try to breathe in again. He didn’t move his head.

 _Look at how far you’ve come_.

Feeling cold, Blaise clenched his fists under the table and tried not to break apart.

**Ron**

Squinting to see into the dull interior, Ron noted disinterestedly that nothing had changed. If anything, Hogge’s looked worse than before.

Right. Nothing else to do but get to it, then. He started to make his way to the dimly lit corner where the bar was located. The sooner he got drunk enough to forget all the events of the past week, the sooner he could get back to his shit flat and pass out. He had tomorrow off, anyway. A quick sweeping glance to see if...

“Zabini, what-” The sight of that aristocratic face, familiarly arrogant and yet not (fuck, it’d been 5 years, hadn’t it?), halted Ron immediately, waking him up as suddenly as if he’d been doused with an _Aguamenti_. Zabini was here. _Blaise Zabini_. The traitor git who used to flounce with the Malfoys and had never hesitated to throw a "poor blood" insult his way. Sitting here and looking at him measuringly, in the dirty pub where Ron thought he’d waste a few miserable hours on his own.

“Weasley," Zabini acknowledged, eyes narrowing, voice woodenly and polished. Exactly like how he used to.

Suddenly, Ron thought he felt a small, sharp lance twisting around in his chest somewhere. There was a pain there, he was fucking sure of it, because he was looking at Zabini's fucking face, and then suddenly he was looking through one of the dusty hallways at Hogwarts, the one where he'd seen Parvati's body crumple dully at one end, a few minutes before he'd heard Ginny's scream. Followed the sound to its source where he’d been met by the awful pallor on Fred's face.

Ron wasn’t aware that he’d charged over until his knees knocked into the rounded edge of the small table where Zabini sat, wobbling it and the beer tankard on top of it.

"What are you doing here?" Ron hissed, uncaring that Zabini had started to dart wary looks at their surroundings. Why was he here? _Now_?

“Having a drink, what does it look like?”

“In this hovel, Zabini? What, with the drunk wizards no one else wants around them?”

“By the looks of it, Weasley, you need a drink more than I do," Zabini smirked, ignoring his question and subtly looking him up and down. Fuck, but the git hadn’t changed and Ron was _done_ with this shit day.

“Got tired of running from your crimes, did you? Or was it Azkaban?” Ron’s heart had started to thud fast and he knew his face was probably flushed a deep red. He didn’t care. He was an Auror now, and this he could do. Satisfaction flared briefly when he saw that Zabini had gone still, smirk gone and lips thinning imperceptibly.

“I don’t have anything to answer for, Weasley. Least of all to _you_.”

“ _Oh_ , I beg to differ. I know for a fact that the Ministry likes to keep tabs on those who sided with Voldemort,” Ron leaned forward, ignoring Zabini’s sharp inhale, “never mind those who actually fought on his behalf. Why are you here?!”

“Shut the fuck up, Weasley!” Zabini hissed back immediately, glaring at him. So his collected composure had broken. Good.

“ _Why. Are. You. Here_?”

Zabini stared back angrily at him, and said nothing.


	2. Stumbles and Rightings, Of a Sort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but with a bit more action packed in. :)

**Blaise**

Blaise couldn’t believe his fucking rotten luck.

 _Where_ had sodding Weasley come from? Brash as always, indignantly raising his voice like he was owed something. _Some things never changed_.

Blaise risked a glance at the other occupants of the room. The barkeep was openly sneering at them at them with his beady little eyes. The middle-aged wizard who’d been sitting near the alleyway entrance when Blaise came in was quietly muttering with another wizard, this one with grey hair and a pockmarked face. Although they were sitting half-facing the wall and their backs were hunched, their low voices and their eyes, shifting every now and then to rest upon him, belied their unsavoury interest in what was going on at Blaise’s table. And the keen, calculating look he’d gotten before from the greasy-looking witch sprawled across the...Blaise dared not look behind him.

 _Some things did change, then_.

Bollocks, he really shouldn’t have come here. He’d known, ultimately, what he would be returning to when he’d come down from Swindon. Dark looks, and even darker whispers. Whispers about him and _his evil Mother_ , about how they’d always been the corrupted sort. That they should have been carted off to Azkaban as soon as Potter had ended the Dark Lord. Never mind that he’d been a fucking _kid_...

He could feel the cold creeping in on him a little more, an icy tightness quietly beginning to crush his throat.

“Never did learn how to mind your own business, did you, Weasley?” He managed to rasp out. Fuck, he was shaking now. 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the barkeep start to shuffle around the high-top.

“I’m not asking again, Zabini. I’m sick of your lot—!”

“I never fucking asked for you to barge in here like a stupid idiot!” That stopped Weasley short, his mouth falling open in disbelief when Blaise rose to his feet. Fumbling for his Ministry-issued wand, he barely noticed when a pinprick of pain shot through him as he unclenched his fists.

He was hurting.

And he was so tired. But that was no excuse for where he’d gotten himself now—there was no rest for people like him.

**Ron**

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Ron thought perhaps he was in a garbled, distorted daydream of his own making, one in which enemies from his school days reared up unexpectedly and horribly to attack him in a dingy pub. Reaching for his own wand, he quickly trained it on Zabini, who...wasn’t even looking at him anymore, but at the advancing barkeep, ugly grin and dirty brown apron coming into stark view. Ron flicked his eyes between the two of them, just then noticing the high sheen of sweat on Zabini’s forehead. Farther back in the gloom, two others had stood as well, squaring their shoulders and reaching slowly for what must have been their wands, or some other sinister weapons. It was that sort of area.

“Found us a little death eater, have we?”

Rotating his head a little, _shit_ , Ron caught the tail end of a nasty look shared between a scrawny wizard sitting by himself and a witch just opposite with messy, greased curls.

Nobody said a thing. 

Zabini’s wand arm shook slightly. 

And then several things happened at once. 

Zabini kicked out at the small table in front of them, glass and remaining beer upending to smash loudly on the cement floor.

The barkeep lunged, a dull gleam of something flashing briefly in his hand. Someone shrieked behind them.

A light went out.

Grabbing at the hem of one of Zabini’s robe sleeves, Ron forcibly shoved himself forward over the broken table legs. He lashed out in the dim light, punching into the soft gut of the keep with his wand. Hearing Zabini give off a choked-off groan, he whirled around, managing just in time to send a Backward Jinx at one of the other approaching wizards. Fuck, what _was_ this?! He could almost hear what Dawkins, flinty and pushy even in the best of times, would say when he heard about this...A piercing spasm shot through his leg then, a small warning before he felt a hand wrap tightly around his ankle from behind and pull him roughly to the ground. He lost his grip on his wand as he fell. The barkeep clambered to straddle his chest and promptly crossed over Ron’s arms, biting down hard on one of his wrists when Ron struggled to throw him off. Ron felt his breath start to shrink.

Maybe he wouldn’t make it to Dawkins’ tirade after all.

Ron stared up at the keep as he wheezed in pain. His eyes, yellowed much like the rest of him, were rolling around crazily and there was spit frothing down his chin.

“Caught us two darkly mingers, eh?”

Ron could still hear the sounds of fleshy punches being exchanged in the background, though getting fainter with each passing second as his breaths shortened.

Shit. 

“Weasley? What is—damn it!” A surprised shout reached his ear. Still struggling with the weight on top of him, he strained to see as a familiar face, Hannah?, appeared in the doorway.

“Mmmphh—!”

“Damn it again! Aurors! Aurors here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello everybody!  
> x


	3. Knowing How to Pick Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn of all slow burns :D  
> Or not?
> 
> It's good, though.  
> Enjoy x  
> -TRIGGER WARNING for some minor violence, self-loathing, & negative self-talk.

**Blaise**

"Not going to tell me why you're here, then?" Blaise’s head snapped up when he heard Abbott’s muttered question to Weasley.

They’d been waiting outside near the entrance to Hogge’s for several minutes now, awkwardly silent and undisturbed except for the occasional loud exclamation or curse floating out from inside the pub. The other two stood a little away from Blaise, Abbott with her arms crossed and a mildly considering expression on her face, Weasley squinting at the dark sky while he rubbed his arm.

Blaise watched as Weasley glanced quickly in his direction before shrugging his shoulders. Abbott snorted, as if she’d expected his response and knew it was shite anyway, and then turned to lean against the brick wall resignedly. Blaise hadn’t quite gotten used to her being _here_ , with an Auror pin fastened to her robes and a sureness to her movements. _Weren’t Hufflepuffs known for their docility, or some other equally dense standard?_ Granted, he hadn’t interacted with her much at all at Hogwarts, Blaise admitted to himself, but he remembered that she used to be part of the larger Potter retinue that had loved to flaunt its association but never did much of anything.

Abbott moved her gaze to him next, and Blaise promptly wished that he had left as soon as the chokehold around his neck had slackened and the wizard directly in front of him had been Disarmed. It had taken a bit of time for the fog to clear, however; he thought he could still feel the remnants of the fear-tinged adrenaline that had coursed through him, the _surely this was it, this was where it ended before he’d even had the chance to sit and think for a bit and maybe even start over._..

_Think you might have to grovel for them to let you go, Blaise?_

“You have a Ministry-issued wand.” Abbott’s tone, though mild, brooked no argument. Blaise nodded once, tersely.

“So you must have been…” After a short pause, he nodded again to acknowledge what her trailing voice didn’t say. 

_That after two months of desperate running and hiding from Death Eaters, you and Mother were arrested early one morning and taken to Ministry holdings. Held there for ages with no one to talk to and no one to explain._

_That when you’d finally been let out, someone had pelted Mother with a sharp rock on the way up to the courts level and the wizards escorting you had pretended not to notice._

_That she’d had to testify that first day with a trail of blood trickling down her face._

_And that you’d both returned home after the trial—wandless, of course—to find that everything had been seized, or perhaps ransacked, save for a few old portraits._

_That it had been too much after that, to keep living in that empty house. Even when the pardons and the new wands had come._

Blaise wondered again why he was still here, waiting with Abbott and Weasley as the two additional Aurors sent as back-up finished up inside. It might have had something to do with the not-so-subtle " _not him"_ gesture Weasley had made earlier when the two others had walked in his direction, instead pointing them toward a far corner where Abbott had stood by with the trussed-up barkeep.

_Why?_

Weasley, pointedly still looking away, gave no indication that an explanation would be forthcoming. Blaise supposed that was better than nothing.

Abbott had opened her mouth to say something else when the pub door swung open roughly and one of the Aurors walked out. Blaise didn’t miss the way he narrowed his eyes at him before he turned to Abbott.

“Found a few things on ‘em. In the place itself, too.”

“Good. Need help taking them in?”

“Finishing siding them through as we speak.”

“Alright.”

The door swung open again, and the second Auror walked through, completely ignoring that Blaise was still there.

“You know how to pick them, Weasley.”

“Ah, sod off, Regan.” They all chuckled at that for a bit. Blaise couldn’t say that he remembered what that felt like, being teased by people who liked you.

“Right, we’ll be off.”

“So will we, in a minute.”

“Tell your partner to owl you before the next duel!” One last snicker, Abbott nodding amusedly as the two wizards Disapparated away. She turned to Weasley again, pulling something out of one of her pockets.

“Left this at your desk. Wasn’t too late yet, so I thought I’d find you.”

“Oh...right, thanks.” Weasley looked as if he were in a stupor.

“It’s all there, notes and everything. Might want to look over it before the next briefing.” Weasley nodded.

Right. _That was that, then_. Tuning out the rest of Abbott’s words, Blaise turned to the opposite direction and began to walk down the street. It was over. Or, maybe not...he still had the Kensling put away somewhere, the bottom of his traveling case perhaps if his slippery landlord hadn’t gone through his things again. It was an indulgence he’d talked himself into a week ago after overhearing two witches natter on about the Hogsmead midnight market. A swig or ten of that would finish him right off—

“Zabini!” His heart sunk to his stomach.

Turning around, he saw Weasley running after him, looking as determined as ever. _Fuck_ , they hadn’t changed their minds, had they?

Weasley stopped a few paces away and just stared at him. Abbott wasn’t anywhere around. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Blaise stared right back.

Weasley pursed his lips. “You didn’t answer my question from before.”

“Looking to start something, Weasley?” _This again?_ “Your partner didn’t think it was a big deal. I’m allowed to drink where I like.” That got a reaction.

“Hannah and I are _not_ the same. We don’t _think_ the same. And I know what your lot has always tried to do, don’t I?”

“You don’t know shit.” Blaise was surprised his voice remained steady, considering how tense and freezing cold he felt on the inside.

“Five, six, or, hell, even ten years, Zabini, I don’t really care how long it’s been since you turned tail”—and Blaise had to chuckle at that, because Mother could barely leave the cottage these days knowing that the only thing waiting beyond was more of the same deprecatory ridicule; where was the choice in that?—"but people don’t change who they are.” Weasley had moved closer, crowding and leaning into his personal space. As warm breath washed over his face, Blaise felt his frustration start to rise.

“Especially Slytherins like you.” 

He’d rushed Weasley before he’d even thought about it, tackling him roughly and taking them both to the ground. They quickly started shoving at each other, landing hard punches wherever they could manage. Blaise couldn’t think, or feel. 

_Well, that’s a lie. Fucking tired, aren’t you? The Hogwarts stuff’s not going away any time soon._

He was. All he’d wanted was to wallow alone. And he couldn’t, because here they were. A cry started to build in his throat as they continued to scuffle, gripping and pulling and scratching and punching.

His head hurt. 

_Always thought you were better._

His heart hurt.

_Scum. It's what you get._

Several seconds passed before Blaise realized Weasley’s body had gone rigidly still beneath his. Looking down, he saw that Weasley had his forearms raised but was no longer moving them. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly and his face was flushed a deep red.

“Fuck, Weasley…” Blaise hurried to right himself, taking two, no, three steps back as he blearily brushed a hand down his face.

“I...Weasley,...Ron, are you…?” Something desperate in Blaise’s voice must have impelled the other to open his eyes. He watched, rooted to his spot, as Weasley swallowed and nodded, stood up haltingly, and then Disapparated.

**Ron**

_The teeth marks were healing_ , Ron thought, examining his hand and wrist. He hadn’t bothered with casting a healing spell when he had arrived home that night, tripping over everything and crashing almost immediately onto his unmade single, robes and shoes and all.

Two days had passed since then.

He padded over into his bathroom. Stared at himself in the mirror. Two days, but he hadn’t yet touched the mess of events in his head. He knew he was upset and unsure about a lot—Fred; Hermione and the way their relationship had petered out; Harry. And Zabini, showing up after all these years, saying _his_ name in that posh way of his…

A loud _rap-rap-rap_ at the door interrupted his thoughts. He smiled humorlessly at his reflection. He’d wondered if Hannah would let it go.

When he lifted the wards, she barged in unceremoniously (“Started to think you were still asleep, Weasley”) before plopping herself down onto the couch.

“Was in the loo.”

Hannah rolled her eyes at him and kicked at some clothes nearby he’d left on the floor a few days before. Or maybe a week before- he couldn’t remember.

“How’s Gin?”

“Good. Off to another camp. You know,” she burrowed herself deeper into the knit cushions Mum had sent him, “you could have told me it’d be like living without a roommate. Ever since she got signed, your sister’s only home for about half the year.”

He smirked at her. “Wouldn’t have been the outstanding partner I am if I gave away the details, would I?”

They lapsed into silence.

“So...” Hannah prompted him. He was beginning to think he should have left it all alone, that he should've just gone on in and had that drink he’d craved. Harry’s obsessive truth-finding must have rubbed off on him much more than he’d thought over the years.

He sighed, sitting down at the other end of the couch. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Hannah. I was surprised to see Zabini and I wanted to find out what he was doing there. You know it’s part of what we do.”

“What happened after?”

Ron shrugged, feeling awkward suddenly. “Nothing much. I just asked him again about Hogge’s.”

“You know there’s nothing there, probably? I looked it up in the Ministry records. He and his mother were tried after the war, and then they moved away. Ireland, I think. Besides the association with the Malfoys and the Greengrasses, they never found anything substantial concerning the Dark Arts or Death Eater activity.”

A pause.

"It’s just never seemed like that was all it was,” Ron answered shortly. 

"And how many of us match what we were at Hogwarts?" Hannah asked simply.

"Hannah, I…”

She waited him out, blue eyes trained steadily on him. He'd been surprised to see her big round face among the other nervous Ministry recruits a couple of months after it had all ended. Watched her doggedly make it through training and everything. _They'd all had to change,_ he supposed. _Resign themselves to what came after, whether they wanted to or not_.

When no words seemed to be forthcoming, Hannah's eyes softened a little. "I know it's shit, Ron. There's no knowing why he's here, really. But it's not our matter, and you've got your own life to deal with.”

"He used to prance about with _Death Eaters_ ,” Ron shot back brokenly, angrily. He didn't know why he wasn't letting this go. Hardly the first one he'd seen since, right? Or taken in.

"Yes, he did. As did many others, who’ve had to pay for it. Returning to that is not going to work here. We’ve got our evals in two weeks. So we can keep doing the shit that we took on. I need you here, Ron. With me." Hannah put her hand on his arm, and that almost sent him over. He’d known from before, watching George, his parents and other people grieve, that it wasn’t healthy to hold on to the past in this way. He knew that now. But everyone else had moved on, _was_ moving on, and he was still here. Stuck, even though he looked like he was managing.

Hannah held eye contact with him for a moment, patting his arm when she saw that he had gotten the message. She got up and walked around the couch toward the door.

“Ron?” There was an odd inflection to Hannah’s voice.

He turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“You could always go to him, you know. Now that he’s here. Find out what he’s about and put it to rest.”

He gaped at her, unnerved but already feeling a familiar tension start to creep into his back and shoulders.

_"Weasley,..._

_Ron, are you…?”_

When he heard the final click signifying that the door was locked, that Hannah had left and that the wards were settled, Ron wearily put his hands up to his face and breathed harshly into his messy sitting room.

_One, two, three, four._

_Five, six, seven, eight_.


	4. Former Suspected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS.  
> There's more that needed to be added here, but I couldn't help myself.
> 
> _Whump._

**Blaise**

_To Mz. Lyronna Aida Zabini_

_We regret to inform you that specialist remedy regarding Dissolution of Magic does not extend to your particular case. This is regrettably common in circumstances where the original conjurer or spellcaster is deceased, and it is an ailment which St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries continues to research tirelessly._

_While there is no cure as of yet, our healers may provide you with experimental palliative infusions for temporary relief of some symptoms. Please note that we have found these to be effective only when re-administered over time._

_Should you wish to avail yourself, you must present in person to the reception at St. Mungo’s. You will be directed to the Second Floor._

_Regards,_

_Doris Scribbs_

_Aide-in-Charge,_

_St. Mungo’s Hospital Administration_

* * *

Blaise re-read the letter for what must have been the dozenth time. The apprehension he felt was the same as the first time when he had found the letter, pushed under some scarves and left on a side table. Wanting to respect his Mother’s privacy, he had put the letter aside and begun to walk away when a small voice in his head had told him to check its contents. He wished now that he had chosen to toss it away or disregard it completely. Every time he picked it up was another reminder that his time in London was borrowed. His forays so far into the more obscure parts of the city had yielded little.

” _no, no one knows anything of the sort about a root that does that_ ”

“ _get away before someone sees ya, that’s frowned upon”_

_A rough push away and a door slammed in his face when he’d ventured down a side turn off Diagon Alley_

Sometimes, he wished that he could go back to a time when he was younger, when Mother used to laugh often in that husky way of hers that drew everyone in, witches and wizards alike. For a young boy like he had been, solitary in his race and station, his Mother had been the epitome of all he'd imagined he could ever want to be. _Strong. Proud. Consuming, if you weren't careful, because she'd never really needed magic just to be herself._

All he could remember now was how still and alone she’d looked when he had confronted her. Weak and still with a thin veneer of haughty left over. His Mother. 

They’d fought bitterly. Blaise couldn’t believe that he’d been so blind to the rot happening right in front of him, or that its familial cause had been deliberately concealed from him his entire life. His Mother had laughed dejectedly and pointed to herself, figure thinned and face missing much of its once-vibrant color, and asked him whether he thought the Ministry had been the first of their problems. Not knowing if he could hold it together—he’d lost so much already, _damn it!_ —he had quickly left the cottage (available courtesy of some remnant of a bequest of husband no. 5’s, and now he could never unlearn the brutish truth of what that had cost them) and walked aimlessly for hours in the dark brush that stretched out beyond.

_His grandmother and her fixed, unsparing jealousy._

When he’d returned, Mother had calmly informed him that she couldn’t subject herself to that kind of scrutiny, that she was sorry but she wouldn’t go near wizarding London ever again if she could help it. He’d told her that he would find someone to come and help. She hadn’t replied, just looked at him for a moment and then retired to her bedroom. It was the most they’d spoken to each other in a single day for six years.

He hated it all.

It was late noon when he heard a knock at the door. He briefly entertained the idea that Draco or Pansy, or any one of the Slytherins he’d used to know had somehow heard that he was back in London, and had come to see…Blaise checked himself with a sigh. It wouldn’t do to get caught up in fanciful thinking. He expected that it was the landlord checking in that he hadn’t done something nefarious to what was already an ugly and small flat. Rousing himself from the slouch he’d fallen into, he walked over and opened the door.

Ron Weasley. Again.

_you’re fine you haven’t done anything fuck_

“What do you want?”

“Zabini.” Weasley nodded at him. _So the Ministry was tracking him again_ , Blaise thought unhappily, _tracking and testing him to see how he would jump at their word._

“What is it?”

Weasley looked away and down the hall with its cracked and peeling walls. “Look- can I come in?”

Annoyance, resentment and something else he couldn’t quite name rolled sourly in Blaise’s stomach. He really didn’t fucking want Weasley to come inside. Or to talk to him. He also didn’t want to broadcast his contentions with the Ministry where his neighbors could hear.

Blaise stepped back. Weasley entered slowly, fidgeting and looking anywhere but at him.

 _You don’t want to be here either_. _So why are you?_

Weasley wasn’t wearing his Auror robes. No Abbott in sight either. Again. Was this how the Ministry did things these days? Stopping by with no warning? Random, riotous confrontations with former school rivals in order to do him in? His mind flashed back to the Auror partners from last week and the hateful impulses he had caught in their eyes. Other things as well, like what Hogwarts and wizarding villages were like now, with Slytherin students and their families needlessly, indiscriminately censored and scrutinized after Savior Potter had delivered them all. No, the Ministry’s usual way tended more toward casual ignorance and proclaiming itself liberator when it was much too late for people like him and his Mother. _Former suspected Death Eaters,_ they’d called them _._

“What is it, then, Weasley? The arrests last week? I didn’t know any of them.” Blaise stared hard at Weasley, who scanned over everything, his meager belongings, the rickety furniture, his Mother’s letter…

Blaise hurried to pick it up and crumple it into his back pocket, looking away from Weasley for the few seconds it took to rearrange his face into something other than uncontrolled fear.

“Doesn’t absolve you,” Weasley said after a moment. “You just showed up, and at the worst of places at that. Hiding. You should have expected some questions.”

“I wasn’t hiding. And let’s not forget that I wasn’t the only one scrounging for a place there, was I?”

Weasley narrowed his eyes sharply at that and took a step toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean, Zabini?”

“Nothing.” He smiled smugly. “You Ministry lot make a lot of claims about justified and righteous restoration. What part of that involves consorting with drunk reprobates, I wonder?”

Weasley moved even closer, crowding him. Blaise didn’t give an inch. He’d struck a nerve, after all. He felt a twinge of regret shoot through him, and then immediately wondered why he bothered at all.

“I don’t fucking care about what you think of me. Or that you got lucky and didn’t get tossed into Azkaban with all the others. But know this: we’re not done with cleaning up after Voldemort or his band of murderers. They were all pureblood-minded arseholes like you and your friends!”

“And what about how your Ministry has been wrongfully hurting a lot of people in their haste to rid the entire wizarding world of dark wizards. Don’t give a shit about them?” He was openly sneering now, unable to keep his bitterness at bay. Weasley grabbed at his lapel and thrust his face into his own. Blaise struck back at Weasley’s shoulders but the momentum had already pushed him back into one of the walls.

“Stop!”

Blaise couldn’t. Wouldn’t, in fact, though he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself.

“Stop that!” Weasley breathed harshly into the side of his neck. “Stop that shit now, or I’ll...I’ll—” he broke off abruptly. A long moment passed, holding them there. Blaise waited, straining to hold back an acerbic remark about how insignificant and powerless Weasley really was, how powerless they both were, and how it had always been that way. 

He waited. For what, he wasn’t sure. It was likely too long, however, because his words started to wilt away into the silence between them. The words had been looming in his head for a fucking week, and now they were suddenly gone. Blaise tried to get them back, quickly feeling a desperate and erratic awareness come over him, but it became impossible for him to break the silence. So they stood there. Too close.

He chanced a look at Weasley, who stared back at him, his face scrunched and lips parted slightly. This close to him, Blaise could count five freckles dotted over the skin just above his upper lip. He tracked them each before he remembered himself, jerking his eyes back up. Weasley listed his head forward, and then Blaise couldn’t think anymore.

It was a biting kiss, made up of clacking teeth, bruising dry lips and achy groans. He could feel everything.

_fuck not enough air_

Weasley’s hips pressed forward sharply and knocked the breath away in Blaise’s body. He responded by gripping the front of his shirt and hauling him even closer, and up, of course, _up_ , _up_ , _up_...Weasley was tall, yes; Blaise was taller. 

They fought for dominance, alternating between locking comfortably and straining to move away in order to push back on the other. Weasley bit his bottom lip. Blaise bit back in retaliation and then sucked it, licked it better.

A gruff whimper that wasn’t his.

A hand roving on his back, moving onto his arse.

Shoving. Kneading and crude. 

Making him give in a little, when what he really wanted was to take.

It was a thing of its own, their kiss. Vacillating between pushy and angry to grating and carnal, and then back again. Blaise became unaware of his surroundings, enthralled entirely in the unexpected mess that Ron Weasley had brought to his flat. He must have said something, though, made a noise of some kind, because those lanky arms stilled around him. Fingers remained tense and gripped at him, but Weasley’s body tempered all the same. Heart pounding, Blaise brought up his arm from where it was trapped between.

Trailed it slowly past a hot, hard ridge enclosed in denim, and up a taut stomach and straining chest. Wrapped it around the slim neck studded with even more freckles, and _gripped_. 

_garbled moans_

_shaking body_

_shivery closeness_

Tense and quiet after.

Their lips separated with a small smack and a wet string of saliva.

Indecent. Undeniable.

Panting loudly, Blaise slid his hands down Weasley’s arms—dark cotton shirt bunching a bit, toned muscle beneath—and slowly released him. They were both shaking, Weasley more so. When the haze had fully faded from his mind, Blaise couldn’t look away.

Weasley. Running a finger over his reddened lips. Shirt unbuttoned at the top and erection protruding stiffly. Blue eyes staring at him confusingly. Accusingly.

A wave of want—for Weasley to stay _and let himself get worked over_ —flashed through Blaise, shocking him with its intensity. 

Blaise immediately wanted him gone. 

He closed his eyes.

“Get out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a tease, I know. More to follow.  
> Thank you for your time  
> :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! What did you think?  
> I will try to update and add a chapter every 2-3 days. Got a lot of time on my hands now, lol.  
> Be well x


End file.
